It All Started With A Nighmare
by hisdetective
Summary: John still gets nightmares from his time in Afghanistan. Sherlock wants to help - but what if he goes too far? Johnlock rated for later chapters. The more you review, the more I write!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I don't own my little Sherly or Jawn, unfortunately. But I do own my ideas!

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><p>Sherlock stretched his neck, closing his eyes and attempting to crack each joint in his spine, slowly and carefully. He reached out his arms, rotating his wrists, and locking his elbows. He lowered his arms again and slowly pointed his feet, rising up to his full height and beyond. Once his entire body was limber and stretched, he opened his eyes again and took up his riding crop.<p>

**WHAP. THWAP. SNAP.** The detective gave a very rough beating to the corpse in front of him. He stopped suddenly and took a deep breath, running his hand tightly over the crop. Since the first time Molly let him abuse a corpse in the name of science, he'd been very good at coming up with excuses to hit them whenever he got frustrated – as Sherlock never got truly angry.

His eyes closed, Sherlock calmly thought of the situation that had led him to this point. That morning, he'd woken up from a very nice dream, in which there were several murders and he was being brilliant, again, and solving them one after the other. John was praising him at every turn and his ego was swelling bigger and bigger with each time the doctor looked at him. It really was a nice way to spend his sleeping hours.

But he'd been woken by a shout, one that started his pulse speeding and adrenaline coursing through his body. He recognized it as John's, and he bolted out of bed. His flatmate never shouted, never even really raised his voice unless he thought Sherlock was being an absolute arse. In a few quick strides, Sherlock bounded up the stairs and was standing outside of John's closed door. He heard a few whimpers, but no other noises, so he deduced that there were no intruders – but what on earth would cause the doctor to make such pathetic noises?

The detective opened the door quietly and slowly, his eyes adjusting to the pitch-black of John's room – Sherlock always had a small nightlight, so he'd see an intruder's shadow should he be attacked in the middle of the night. John was in a sweaty ball, wrapped up in the duvet, his hand reaching out for something above the bed, his eyes rolling wildly behind his lids. Sherlock didn't think – he just strode across the room, tearing off the duvet and pulling the sweating man into his arms. He stroked the head of blonde hair, his spidery fingers tender and gentle. His soft, low voice spoke soothing words into the doctor's ear, his lips moving lightly and quickly against the sensitive skin.

John slowly stopped his trembling and melted into his friend's arms, his head butting against Sherlock's chin as he nuzzled into the taller man's arms. Still totally unconscious, John muttered quiet gratitude for his detective's warmth and his lips pursed slightly, as though about to receive a kiss. Sherlock had blinked several times, his heart pounding in his chest and his pupils dilating even further in the dark room. His mind raced faster than it ever had before, and he swallowed, his hands clammy. He wiped the sweat off his palms and he used one long finger to tilt John's chin up, to a proper angle so the detective could see his face beautifully. Sherlock lowered his head slowly and softly, very softly, brushed his lips against the other man's.

And then it had happened. John had woken up, his eyes wide with surprise and he had pulled back quite forcibly from the other man's embrace. He'd stuttered incoherently, but Sherlock didn't need to understand what he'd been trying to say to be able to read his body language and his facial expression. Sherlock stood up swiftly from the bed and inclined his head, his voice half an octave lower than usual with embarrassment. "I apologize for presuming that you wished that sort of contact. I wanted to console you from your nightmare, but I understand that you were not looking for me to help you in that way. It will never happen again, and I will delete it from my memory. I hope that you can do the same. If you need me, I'll be in the morgue. Case."

The detective had walked quickly out of the blonde's room, closing the door quietly behind him, and had gone to his own room, dressing quickly and impeccably, then tearing down the stairs to the front door and making his way to the hospital. He'd texted Molly, telling her that it was imperative that she come to the hospital at once, and had requested a corpse to produce an experiment with. He pulled his riding crop out of his locker (he believed it had once been Molly's locker, but long ago she had told him that it was his, should he want it, and implied that everything that was hers was his, should he want it).

Sherlock took another deep, calming breath, and proceeded to continue to beat the non-bloody pulp out of the middle-aged man who had died of a heart attack and was set to be cremated that very day.

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><p>If you review, I'll give you a Pocket!Sherly or Pocket!Jawn. It's tempting, yes?<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

As usual, I don't own the beautiful Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. ((One day...))

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><p>Sherlock spent his whole day with Molly, who kept him in constant supply of tea and didn't question him when meal times passed and he declined all offers of food. Around 10 that night, she came up behind him, a hand on his shoulder gently, so as to not startle him. "Sherlock, I have to head home. Today was my day off, but I need to be here again early in the morning. Will you be okay without me here? Do you want me to call someone for you? John maybe?"<p>

Sherlock had whirled around and stared at the woman intently, taking in the bags under her eyes, the dirt under her nails (she hadn't had time to fully clean herself before she left the house this morning), the stray piece of hair along her neck. She was exhausted, and he didn't need her, not really. He had a fresh cup of tea and she needed sleep.

He looked back at his microscope, speaking precisely in his cold drawl, "No, don't call John, or Mrs. Hudson. I'm fine. I'll be fine for the night. Go sleep, you look exhausted. You need at least 8 hours tonight. I'd also recommend some lotion under your eyes, might help get rid of the bags."

Molly flushed red, as she always did when Sherlock spoke about her, and blinked a few times. "Uh, right. You…Right. I'll just go. Good luck with your experiment, Sherlock." By the time he looked up again to make a note of his observations under the scope, she was gone. And he was alone again.

He took a few more drops of blood and one drop of water and put the slide under his microscope again. Sherlock had no idea what he was looking for, or what he was even looking at, but he knew he had to look somewhere, had to stay in his Mind Palace, otherwise he'd never be able to delete the morning from his mind. He needed to single-mindedly focus on something else in order to delete a potent memory such as that from his mind. He was having a very hard time, occasionally licking his lips and tasting the husky mixture of cloves and something minty from John's lips. Logically, he knew that there was no way that he could possibly still be able to taste John on his lips from one kiss, especially after a day of licking his lips and being around other very potent odors that would wipe off the taste. But that's why he'd rejected all offers of food. He didn't want to taste anything else; he just wanted to keep the taste of John on his lips. As long as he could.

After a few more hours of 'work,' the detective had to admit defeat. He wasn't experimenting on anything, just staring at blood, adding a few chemicals to the mixture, and staring at it again. There were no ideas for more experiments, there was nothing to distract him, and his mind kept wandering. It was very uncharacteristic, and despite his extreme patience, neither Moriarty nor Lestrade had contacted him with a case. Sherlock settled back on his stool, arching his back to stretch out his sore muscles, and sighed. He had to go back to the flat. He looked longingly at the medical table, calculating the likelihood that it would be comfortable. He came up with a resolute zero percent chance.

He turned off his microscope and cleaned the slides thoroughly, leaving them to dry in a tray beside his scope. He wrapped the cord loosely around the bottom of the scope and used a cotton tissue to clean his facial oil off of the eyepiece lens. He completely organized his chemicals, and cleaned his tools, then left them to dry in a bin beside the sink. Eventually, he looked around the lab and acknowledged that there was no other cleaning up he could do. John would be surprised, Sherlock mused. I've never cleaned a dish while he's lived with me, and I just cleaned the whole lab. He wrapped his scarf around his neck, pulled on his trench coat (collar up), and strode out of the lab, turning off the lights.

Sherlock attempted to walk slowly home, but his long legs and occupied mind betrayed him. Within no time, his hand was on the knob to 221b Baker Street, and he was unlocking the door. He collected himself, smoothed his unruly hair, and opened the door.

It was a little past 1 AM on a Tuesday morning, but he expected to hear the whirring of John's computer as he wrote yet another blog post. The flat was silent, except for the regular sounds of Mrs. Hudson snoring softly in her room downstairs. Sherlock walked slowly upstairs, stepping carefully in the quietest spots in each stair as he ascended onto the landing. He stood still for a moment, head cocked slightly to the side as he just listened carefully for any and all signs of his flatmate. Nothing. He stepped into the main room of their flat, treading on the carpet to remain quiet.

"A case, eh?" Sherlock nearly knocked over the lamp in his surprise. John was sitting quietly in the kitchen, bags under his eyes, worry lines around his mouth, hands clutching a mug of tea that was obviously no longer warm.

Sherlock cleared his throat, standing up to his full height to get some semblance of authority. He felt like a child who was being reprimanded by his mother for staying out past curfew. He swallowed and slowly unbuttoned his coat, pulling his scarf from around his neck and hanging it on the stand just outside the kitchen. "It was a personal one, something I didn't feel the need to bother you with." He turned and sat on the couch, picking up a section of the newspaper that was sitting on the coffee table, obviously unread.

John turned in his chair audibly, letting go of his cup. "I texted Lestrade. There was no case. No one had a clue where you were, aside from bloody Mycroft, who wouldn't tell me a damn thing. He takes his arch-enemy role too seriously for my taste." He stood, his joints cracking, and he held his bad shoulder. Sherlock watched him carefully out of the corner of his eye – it must have seized up during the day, as it naturally would have, if he'd been sitting there waiting for the detective all day.

"Like I said," drawled Sherlock, "It was a personal thing. I didn't want to trouble you with it." He turned a page of the newspaper in his hand, despite not remembering a word he'd scanned over on the previous page. He didn't look up, "Is the water still warm in the kettle? I'd love some –"

The newspaper was unceremoniously ripped out of his hands, and an irate John Watson was glowering down at him. "You were gone all bloody day. No note, just GONE, Sherlock. Gone."

"I don't understand, I told you I'd be at—"

"No, Sherlock. I wasn't awake when you left. I was half asleep, trying to figure out where I was. I registered that you were there, and then you were just gone. I wandered the streets all day, asking if anyone had seen you. I texted and called everyone in my phone, and no one had heard from you. Molly wouldn't even repl… you were at the morgue. You were at the goddamned bloody morgue all day, weren't you?" The expression on John's face was far from a loving one. Sherlock wasn't one to describe emotions with lifeless things, but if he had to quantify it, he'd say there was fire in the doctor's eyes.

Sherlock calmly looked back at that passionately angry expression and replied, "Of course I was. You just lacked the skills of observance to come to the correct conclusion. I've been trying to teach you how to observe and deduce, John."

John stared at the detective, mouth agape for a few heartbeats, then he closed his mouth, carefully rolled up the newspaper, and began to resolutely smack Sherlock about the ears with it. "You. Absolute. Arse. I. Was. Bloody. Worried. About. You!"

Sherlock raised a hand in defense and grabbed the newspaper in the doctor's hand, pulling him closer. John, surprised, was pulled to his knees in front of his flatmate, and blinked, unsure what to do in this position. The taller man's fingers snaked about John's wrist, two fingers against his vein. Sherlock leaned closer to the blonde, his face inches away.

They remained in this position for several heavy moments, then Sherlock let go of the doctor's wrist, leaning back against the couch. "Your pupils dilated."

John stared at the brunette for a moment, absolutely befuddled, before he croaked out, "What?"

Sherlock sighed. He abhorred being forced to repeat himself. "Your pupils, my dear Watson. They were dilated. That usually indicates arousal, or you just had a stroke. I believe it would be the former, but if you believe it was the latter, you are indeed the doctor here."

John continued to stare at the detective. Sherlock wondered briefly if smoke would begin coming out of the doctor's ears, as in those asinine cartoons he was often forced to watch for 'pop culture's sake.' A few beats later, Sherlock swiftly stood and put his hand on his flatmate's shoulder. "Good night John." He strode out of the room and to his bedroom without a backward glance.

Sherlock closed the door to his bedroom, sagging against the unyielding wooden frame. He ran his long fingers through the grain, his mind racing. He'd wanted to kiss John, especially after seeing his eyes dilate like that. He'd wanted to just lean forward that extra little bit and just – but no. He couldn't. Not after that morning's reaction. He just stood there, against the door, and hoped that John's apparent confusion from that morning's…experience, meant that he'd forgotten all about the kiss.

The detective fell on his bed, still fully clothed, and closed his eyes, going over his blogger's face in his mind until he fell into a deep, fitful sleep.

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><p>Reviewers often get cakes shaped like their favorite characters.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

So this chapter is shorter because I'm trying to write about five stories at once. I hope you enjoy, and please review!

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><p>Back in the flat that night, Sherlock flipped through the channels on the TV, John's gun twirling in his hands. He was, in all appearances, back to normal: bored without a case, with nothing good on the telly. John watched him from the kitchen, where he was waiting for the kettle to boil, taking in the tight expression on Sherlock's face, the white grip he had on John's gun, the way he looked at John when he believed the doctor was otherwise occupied.<p>

"Sherlock, do you want some tea?" John called into the main room.

"I'll get it myself." Sherlock was behind him, reaching a hand across John to get a mug and a tea bag. He tore open the bag, dumping the leaves loosely at the bottom of his cup, and poured water over it. He handed the kettle to John, and their hands brushed slightly, causing both men to shiver. Sherlock quickly extracted himself from the kitchen, forgetting any sugar or milk.

He flopped down in his chair, nearly spilling his tea all over himself. He set the cup down on the endtable next to him and proceeded to forget that it was even there. John sighed and sat down in the chair across from him, sipping at the tea as he examined the newspaper spread on his lap.

"There's a missing chancellor. That should interest you." He looked over at the detective.

"No, he's not missing, he's just taking a vacation in Bath. These publications just rush to say things without paying attention. Hmm, maybe Anderson should consider a journalism career." Sherlock mused, then sighed and changed the channel again.

"You could always consider a vacation yourself. You work every day at all hours; you could take a breath." John quirked his eyebrow at Sherlock over the top of the newspaper.

"Breathing is boring. I much prefer my nicotine patches."

"You know, you're only supposed to use one of those at a time, Sherlock." John's voice took on a concerned tone as he studied his flat mate.

Sherlock waved him off. "I'd smoke, but you'd have reprimanded me for that particular habit."

"It stinks up the whole flat!"

Sherlock looked at him with an amused expression. "I could smoke outside then."

John threw up his hands. "Fine. Do you want me to admit that I worry about your health? I will. I do worry about it. I worry about you, as you well proved last night, you big-headded, arrogant arse."

Sherlock's smile faded, his hands steepled under his chin. "I know you care about my health John. You are my doctor. It's your job to."

John stared at his detective, his mouth slightly open. He leaned forward, his hand resting on the brunette's knee. "That's not why I care about you, Sherlock. I've cared about you before I became your doctor."

The detective looked down at John's hand, gently covering it with his own. "It isn't often that those words are spoken to me in truth: 'I care about you.' You mean a lot to me." Sherlock gently removed the doctor's hand from his knee and shifted his gaze back to the TV.

John sighed, feeling rejected, and shook out his newspaper again. He didn't speak again until Sherlock stood to take his cup to the kitchen. John held up his own cup and Sherlock took it with him, their fingers brushing again lightly. John looked up to watch Sherlock in the kitchen, then quietly folded up his newspaper and walked to his room, closing the door quietly behind him.

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><p>This time, reviewers get to throw American spies out the window repeatedly.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

I couldn't hold back anymore. I had to have some cute! Enjoy!

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><p>Sherlock turned off the TV after a little while, finally completely alone with his thoughts. Mrs. Hudson was asleep downstairs, and it'd been 45 minutes since John had gone to bed. The flat was silent, and the consulting detective entered his mind palace. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the previous morning.<p>

His hands moving through the air, he mapped out in his mind: dilated pupils, increased pulse, heated breathing, unblinking stare – desire. Comforted, murmuring, subtling asking for a kiss – more gentle, but still desire. He knew that John had wanted him to kiss him, at least on a subconscious level. There was something there, but John was terrified to admit it.

He heard it again: soft whimpering, the occasional pained cry, gentle sobs. He knew it was coming from John. He stood, torn between John's previous reaction and his intense desire to help the army doctor through his nightmares and his disorder. He took several steps forward, then braced himself as though he was going to be hit. He closed his eyes again, weighing the likelihood that John remembered the first encounter, the likelihood that it would happen again, the amount of desire he knew that John harbored for him.

Before he knew it, Sherlock was in front of John's door, his hand on the knob and slowly turning it. He caught his breath, holding it as he opened the door. The cries had stopped, but the whimpering was still there. As the bed came into sight, Sherlock saw that the other man was curled up on his side, his duvet in a bundle at the bottom of the floor. He had broken out in a cold sweat, and Sherlock's heart ached at the sight of this man so broken and alone, in the middle of his bed, cold and lonely.

Sherlock took two quick strides across the room, and sat down at the edge of the bed. He pulled one leg onto the bed for more leverage and leaned over, resting a warm hand on John's sweat-soaked shoulder. "John," he whispered softly, nerves turning to shake his voice. "John, it's just a dream, you're alright. It's just a nightmare, it's not real." He tried to remember what his mother had told him when he'd had nightmares as a child. "I'm here, John. Wake up, open your eyes. I'm here for you." He pulled the shaking man into his arms, laying back on the bed, his chest against his friend's soaking back.

The shivering did not stop, but the doctor quieted down slightly. He shook his head a few times, and seemed to be struggling to open his eyes, like a newborn kitten. Sherlock ran a hand down John's arm gently, comforting him. "It's alright John. I'm here for you. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here, whether you want me or not." He pulled John closer to his chest, holding him tightly.

John woke this time, jerking slightly at the pressure of arms around him. However, when he realized where he was, he relaxed and turned his head. Sherlock buried his face in John's back, not wanting to see the other man's expression, but John smiled when he realized who it was. He turned in the detective's arms and wrapped his own around Sherlock's tapered waist. He nudged the taller man's chin with the top of his head and kissed his neck.

"Thank you." He whispered gratefully. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't woken me then—just, thank you." He curled up against his flatmate and fell back asleep, peacefully this time.

Sherlock, stunned, just lay there for a few minutes, his mind flicking back and forth, trying to formulate a response. Speechless, he pulled the blonde closer into his arms, and closed his own eyes. He let the darkness overtake him and sunk into John's warm embrace.

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><p>Reviewers get to sing Soft Kitty to Sherly with me tonight.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Oh man, it's been a while, eh? Well, here's more conflicted Sherly for ya, and coy John. Dooeeeeooo.

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><p>Morning dawned brighter and earlier than Sherlock strictly desired. Sometime during the night, John had turned over, presenting his back to Sherlock, who had slid his arms back around the other's waist. They were pressed together comfortably, John's hand under the pillow and Sherlock's face pressed into his neck.<p>

Suffice it to say, the two were cozy.

However, there was a small slit in the curtains, and a sliver of sunlight was cutting across the detective's face, who couldn't seem to shift far enough into John's neck to make it stop. Eventually, he gave up, and gently (trying not to wake the doctor) extracted himself from the warm bed.

He turned his back once he got up, and padded his way silently down the stairs and into the kitchen, putting the kettle on and idly checking his phone. Today, of course, there was a case. Lestrade had texted him early, around 04:30, letting him know there was a body to be examined in the morgue for him, and a crime scene should he choose to participate. No other information was given, and Sherlock couldn't tell if he was intrigued or simply annoyed.

He did try, however, not to think about what had happened the night before. Since he had been the first to awake, he had no idea whether John really wanted him there last night. In his half-asleep state, sure, he had, but what would he think when he woke up? Would he not remember, like the other night?

Sherlock shook his head, cutting the kettle off before it could start whistling loudly. He got two mugs from the cupboard and fixed both with steaming tea, figuring the smell would wake the soldier if nothing else. The newspaper was already sitting on the couch – God bless Mrs. Hudson – and Sherlock settled on the couch with it, his tea on the coffee table beside his crossed ankles.

Six and a quarter minutes later, John descended from his bedroom, robe loose around his legs and one fist rubbing lazily at his eyes. "Morning," he ground out, his voice hoarse from sleep. Sherlock just gave him a nod in return, still reading.

John got his cup, lifting it at Sherlock in thanks, and took a deep drink of it, enjoying the warmth as it slid down his throat. A low hum came from his throat, and he settled his pelvis back against the counter, rolling his neck and trying to get the knots from his shoulders. "How'd you sleep?" he asked idly, not really expecting a response since Sherlock was engrossed in the paper.

"Quite well, thank you," came the short reply, and John arched an eyebrow before padding over and settling down on the couch beside the detective. He leaned over, his shoulder just barely brushing against Sherlock's as he glanced at the paper.

"Anything good on today?"

Sherlock didn't seem to be breathing, but at least he didn't pull away. He wrinkled his nose. "Not one thing. Lestrade texted – you may want to check your phone as well – but I'm not sure I'm interested today."

John gave him an odd look before pulling back again, resting his back against the couch. "Not a good enough case, or have you got other plans?"

Sherlock shrugged, folding the paper and reaching for his tea. "He gave me no information regarding the case. Not much to go on, so there isn't much to interest me quite yet. Perhaps he will have more details later, but for now…" he rolled a shoulder. "Did you sleep well?"

John sipped his own tea. "Well, it didn't start out so great, but it seemed to get better as the night went along." He glanced at Sherlock, arching one eyebrow. "Might you know anything about that?"

The detective narrowed his eyes at his feet, not sure what he was meant to say. If he confirmed, then there was the possibility that he would reveal something that John did not remember – nor did he want to remember. If he denied it, he might be called out on lying about it. Instead, he gave a non-committal shrug.

Exasperated, John pushed at Sherlock's shoulder. "I know you came into my room last night, you git," he sighed. "I sleep heavily, but not enough to not know when someone's sleeping beside me all night. I had another nightmare, didn't I?"

Surprised that John would remember he had been there, but that he wouldn't remember that he'd had a nightmare, Sherlock just nodded stiffly, staring resolutely at his fingers where they circled around the mug. There was almost no steam anymore, and he drank a bit more before it went cold.

"Thank you," came a quiet voice by his shoulder, and Sherlock turned his head to look at John. The doctor was looking at him already, with a gentle look on his face. "I appreciate what you've done for me, Sherlock. I know that human interactions aren't exactly your….forte, but you try for me. And I appreciate it. Truly."

Sherlock could feel his ears getting hot. It wasn't that he wasn't good at human interactions – he simply chose not to engage in them, given that others usually got the wrong impression, or he grew bored easily. He gave another non-committal shrug, which earned him a clip about the ears. "Oy!"

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's reaction. "A simple 'you're welcome' would suffice. You don't need to make this so awkward." He finished his tea, and plucked Sherlock's cold cup from his hands. "I'm off to shower. Try to at least go somewhere today, eh?" He rinsed the cups off in the kitchen, then disappeared into the bathroom, where Sherlock could hear the creak and crack of the pipes before steam began to warm the flat.

He still didn't know how much John remembered, and he settled back onto the couch to think on it. It wasn't going to be an easy day, he could tell.

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><p>Since it's been a while since I've updated, reviewers get some yummy cafe food with Mycroft in the rain. Very romantic.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Okay okay okay, you get another chapter. Pushy broads. C:

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><p>Sherlock, to his credit, did actually get out of the flat that day. John left quickly after his shower, giving the detective hardly more than a nod before bounding down the stairs and out to work. Sherlock debated the dredges at the bottom of the mugs by the sink before resigning himself to his own shower, figuring it would be pretty gross to sit around unbathed all day, even if he didn't have plans to leave.<p>

About half-past-noon, though, Mrs. Hudson came bustling upstairs and saw Sherlock at the window. His plan had been to get some composing done, but he had ended up simply holding the violin loosely and staring out the window, lost in thought.

"If you're going to be idle, you might as well make this flat presentable. It looks like a pigsty in here!" were the words that pulled him from his involuntary reverie. He wrinkled his nose, and glanced around. There were a few case files here and there, but nothing terribly offensive, he figured. Then she lifted the still-bloody knife from the kitchen table (from a particularly juicy thigh he'd commandeered from the morgue), and he had to agree.

"I'll get on it, Mrs. H," he begrudgingly agreed, setting the instrument on the chair beside him and moving to sort a few folders into a pile. She bustled around for a bit, cleaning up the blood in the kitchen, but not rearranging too many things, before disappearing and leaving a plate of cookies in her wake.

Once she'd left, Sherlock sank back onto the couch again, fingers steepled beneath his chin, and he returned to his previous thoughts. It was, of course, quite obvious that John was attracted to him. His constant self-reassurances that he isn't gay, almost too often, the dilated pupils and the rapid heartbeat – they all pointed to attraction. However, it was only physical attraction, really. So, perhaps he really wasn't interested in pursuing something with Sherlock.

The detective scrubbed a hand over his face. To be fair, he wasn't sure if he wanted something with the doctor, either. It wasn't as though relationships were his forte; sure, he'd done the regular experimenting in college, but no one had truly sparked his interest. Everyone grew boring after a while, whether in or out of the bedroom. The likelihood that John, someone who nearly demanded that everyone believe he'd never be with a man, could keep his interest in that way was slim to none.

But – John surely remembered what had happened. He'd turned over in the middle of the night, which usually brought people to some form of consciousness, at least to be able to tell if they are in a position that they don't feel comfortable in. Yet, he hadn't moved. In fact, Sherlock had awoken to find them intimately intertwined.

Frustrated, Sherlock tossed on his coat and stormed out of the flat, determined to find answers.

John's office wasn't far from the flat; perhaps a ten minute walk in the brisk London air. It was summer, sure, but there had been a cold front (just as Sherlock had predicted) and the heavy coat he was wearing was a comfort. His hands sunk deep into the pockets more to keep the material from flapping in the wind more than for warmth, and he walked quickly to his destination.

Once there, he didn't bother checking to see if John had a patient (he did), or if he needed an appointment (he did), but just barged into his office anyway, much to the chagrin of the patient sitting on the paper-covered table.

"Do you mind?" the middle-aged woman demanded, though she was fully clothed, and there was nothing really for her to be embarrassed about. Sherlock glanced at her.

"I need to speak with the doctor for a moment. It's a matter of urgency; I'm sure you'll understand." She was easily ushered from the room, despite her high-pitched protests about how she had to get back to work and what kind of facility were they running anyway but can she at least have her purse? He handed her the atrocious teal bag before closing the door in her face.

John, amusingly, didn't say anything throughout the encounter, just sat at his desk with his pen in the air, staring at the charade. "Is there something I can do for you, Sherlock?" he finally asked, setting down the pen and folding his hands over his desk.

"Yes - No." Sherlock corrected himself, then paused, not sure he was right. Finally, he shook his head and repeated, "No, but there is something I need to do, so if you wouldn't mind staying perfectly still?" John frowned, but nodded his consent.

It was one and a half of Sherlock's normal strides across the small examination room from the door to the desk, but he attempted to keep himself calm, so he translated it to three full steps instead. Standing in front of the desk, he pondered the doctor's face for a moment, attempting to figure out the best angle at which to perform this act, before he determined that John wasn't facing him in the right way. Two long fingers pushed under the other's chin, tugging his face up, and Sherlock leaned in, analyzing the way that John's pupils dilated just before Sherlock's lips covered his.

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><p>AN: Ooooh, isn't it frustrating when they do something dramatic and you have to wait a while to find out what the reaction is going to be? I hate it when that happens. Review for the chance to win a delightful umbrella, and you might even get the adorable elder Holmes brother attached!


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